Chapter 3 - The Ghost of AncoatsThe Ford Transit smelled strongly of damp wool, stale tobacco, and cheap diesel. As it bounced aggressively over a hidden curb and plunged into the labyrinthine backstreets of Manchester’s industrial district, Alexander clutched the two puppies to his chest.
In the passenger seat, the bearded driver spat out the window. "Name's Declan. Used to run security for the West End docks before your high-class corporate buddies bought out the harbor and turned it into luxury flats. Never thought I’d be saving Alexander Roses, the Golden Boy of British finance."
Alexander wiped a streak of blood from his forehead with his sleeve. "How do you know who I am?"
Declan glanced sideways, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. "Mate, your face is on every financial magazine from here to Tokyo. Though, usually, you’re wearing a three-thousand-pound suit that isn't covered in mud and dog hair."
Alexander looked down. The white puppy was stirring, its breathing growing stronger thanks to the warmth of his body. The tan puppy was curled up on the dashboard, staring out the cracked windshield with an unnerving, hyper-focused stare, as if memorizing every turn they made.
"Those men back on the M56," Alexander said, his voice cold. "They weren't ordinary hitmen. They were Yakuza-backed."
"Oh, aye. Takahashi’s clean-up crew," Declan muttered, turning the van down a narrow, graffiti-tagged alleyway in Ancoats. "The old man’s been buying up half of northern England through shell companies, trying to launder tech money through our shipping ports. Word on the street is, you found out something you weren’t supposed to. Something about the robotics firm's true funding."
Alexander went silent. He had found something. Three days ago, his compliance team flagged an anomaly in the Tokyo merger accounts—millions of pounds flowing into unregistered black-ops accounts linked to synthetic neural research. Research that bore an uncanny, terrifying resemblance to illegal human-animal interface testing.
"They’re not just building corporate infrastructure," Alexander murmured, his blood running cold. "They’re building an army."
"And you stumbled right into their kennel," Declan said, parking the van inside a derelict red-brick warehouse shrouded in shadows. "Welcome to my humble abode. Safe from the police, safe from the Yakuza, and definitely safe from your board of directors."
They stepped out into the cavernous, damp interior of the warehouse. Rows of old shipping crates stacked high against the walls formed a makeshift fortress. In the center sat an old iron wood-stove, radiating a welcome, orange glow.
Alexander gently laid the white puppy down on a clean wool blanket Declan tossed his way. The tiny creature whimpered softly, its broken leg twitching.
"It needs a vet," Alexander said urgently. "A real one. Not whatever back-alley clinic you use."
"Can't go to a real vet, Mr. Roses," Declan said, pulling a rusty kettle over the stove. "Every hospital and veterinary practice in Greater Manchester is currently flagged by Takahashi’s private security network. They’re looking for a bleeding businessman with a ruined suit and a couple of strays."
Suddenly, the tan puppy stood up, shook itself off, and trotted over to a dark corner of the warehouse behind a stack of rusted steel beams. It sat down, let out a sharp bark, and began scratching frantically at the concrete floor.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
"What’s wrong with the little mutt?" Declan asked, frowning. "Is it hungry?"
"No," Alexander said, walking slowly toward the corner. He knelt down beside the tan puppy. The dog looked back at him, its eyes glowing faintly in the dim warehouse light, before pressing its paw against a loose, square paving stone.
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Alexander pushed his fingers into the gap. With a heavy, grinding groan, the stone lifted.
Beneath it lay a sleek, military-grade encrypted laptop, its screen blinking with a single, pulsing green light—and a live video feed of Alexander's own penthouse suite in London, currently being ransacked by four armed men.
